Carefully, Marcelle laid a small black bag of obvious quality and antiquity on a chair. Gold stitching sealed the seams, and it was glossy in the dim light. As Soloman followed the stout priest from the door he spoke. “So, Marcelle, what’s in the bag?”
“Artifacts,” the priest answered vaguely. His head was bowed in thought. “Holy artifacts that, quite probably, will avail us nothing.” He shrugged. “But there is no reason not to hope. It is always better to hope than to despair, as Goethe would say.”
Soloman raised an eyebrow. “The poet?”
“Yes – the poet who retold the legend of Faust, which dates from the sixteenth century. You, of course, know the story. Faust sold his soul to the Devil for the chance to achieve intellectual perfection. And, guided by Mephistopheles, a type of Satan, he moved from one realm of human experience to another without ever attaining the satisfaction he so desperately sought. For intellectual perfection is forever ultimately unsatisfying.”
“Yeah,” Soloman exhaled thick white smoke, “I’ve read it. Read it a couple of times, in fact.”
“I’m sure you have.” Marcelle smiled, “because even though you are a soldier you are also a scholar. In fact, I’ve pondered whether you missed your calling.” He laughed. “You would have made an excellent priest, you know. You have a nature suited for the task.”
“I appreciate that.” Soloman gazed around by reflex. “But Goethe’s Faust is an interesting work for anyone. Satan loses a wager for Faust’s soul because Faust sought only perfection, not pleasure. I’ve never been certain of the morality, or if there is any, really. I guess it’s just a product of the Enlightenment when everyone was rebelling against a tyrannical Church.”
Marcelle nodded. “Yes. Tyrannical is the word, I believe.”
“A stout thing for a priest to say.”
“The Church is multifaceted,” Marcelle replied. “There are priests who agree with the Curia, those who do not, and multitudinous positions spanning the extremes. But there was a time, indeed, when the Church was tyrannical. And in some respects, remains so.”
“But you’re not Catholic, right? You’re a Jesuit.”
“Yes, I am a Jesuit, and I am a Catholic. As much as we are independent of the Church hierarchy, the Society of Jesus has been an ally of Rome since Pius VII removed the ban imposed in 1773. So our order is pledged to the Archbishop’s authority, and many Jesuits have been canonized as saints. We take a lifelong vow of poverty and celibacy and undergo a fifteen-year training period. And our official elected leader, Superior General Anton Aveling, whom I told you of, holds a position of power over the Order.”
“That’s interesting,” Soloman muttered, releasing another cloud of cigar smoke. “I’ve never really studied it.” Then he proceeded to move on with the issue at hand. “So tell me: What did you find?”
“I believe,” Marcelle replied, “that Cain intends to use Amy in some sort of occult ritual – a ritual that can only be evoked on the evening of Samhain. It is apparently an exercise of sorcery in which he will use her to regain something he has lost and something he cannot complete without a copy of The Grimorium Verum. We can only conjecture that his intentions are surely fatal for the child. Aveling suspects that Cain may attempt to use her to regain some measure of lost knowledge.”
Soloman shook his head with a humorless smile as he blew out more smoke. “You know, Marcelle, I thought you were going to say something like that.”
The priest did not reply for a long time. “It was a suspicion that I also harbored,” he said eventually. “Whether there is anything real to it or not is of no matter. But Cain obviously believes, so he will be determined to obtain Amy before Samhain, which is only six days from now. That is why he fears time. Apparently, this spell means everything to him, and he will risk everything to claim Amy for the consummation.”
“Does Aveling feel certain?”
Marcelle nodded. “Yes, and Aveling knows more than you or I will learn in a lifetime. So I believe his conclusions are correct. Amy’s blood, as we already know, will cure the virus in Cain’s system and grant him physical immortality. But Cain wants more. He wants to sacrifice her and gain something through the sacrifice – specifically the names and places of his truest servants – so he can build his empire. For even Cain, if he is who I believe him to be, cannot rule alone. He must have ambassadors, bodyguards – the vassals of a monarch. He is, in a sense, limited.”
There was no true silence because the descending night rumbled with crickets and forest sounds. Wind moaned through surrounding trees, and Soloman studied the theory a long time before he continued.
“All right,” he began, “let’s assume for a moment that you’re right. We already know that Cain wants Amy’s blood to cure the virus, and we can propose that he wants her for this ritual. If that’s correct, how can we use it to our advantage?”
“There is only one means,” Marcelle replied, and Soloman knew where he was going. “We must use Cain’s obsession with time and this ritual to lure him out of hiding. We must ... use Amy.”
Soloman didn’t blink. “I don’t think I’m going to do that, Marcelle.”
Marcelle obviously didn’t like the idea, either. He took a long drag on a cigarette, releasing smoke with each word. “Remember, Soloman. Cain can wait for the child if he must. But he cannot wait for the ritual. Samhain is only five days from now. And, one day after that, if Maggie’s calculations are correct, the virus will become supra-epidemic. So if we are to prevent this plague we must use Cain’s race against time to our advantage. We must use Amy to lure him out of hiding. It is desperate, I agree. But if you are willing to meet Cain once more in combat, it may be the surest means of destroying him.”
Turning to study the darkened tree-line, Soloman was silent. He was glad that Maggie was inside playing Monopoly with Amy and Malo. She would be going ballistic at this. He also knew that a hard decision had to be made, and he was fighting at the tip of the wedge.
“Go on,” he said.
“We must play Cain’s game,” the priest responded with the air of a soldier. “We must use Cain’s greatest weakness, his own hubris, against him. For Cain believes he can overcome any mortal force to claim the child. Therefore, you must challenge his pride.”
“And how do we do that?”
“Make a simple mistake. Do you remember the three locations I mentioned for The Grimorium Verum? They were Los Angeles, New York, and the Vatican. And in order to perform the ritual he must yet claim a copy of the book. So New York is his next destination. And if Amy is also in New York, Cain will come for her there. It would be a challenge he could not resist.”
“And how can we pull that off?” Soloman asked. “If it looks like we’ve put out the information on purpose Cain will suspect a trap.”
“He will suspect a trap in any case, Soloman, because he has great animal cunning, and his mind is growing day by day. He knows more tonight than he did this morning. That is why we must move quickly. In time we will not be able to confound him at all. A small measure of time is all we have on our side, so we must be as shrewd as serpents.”
Soloman didn’t like any of it, but he knew the priest was onto something. “All right, Marcelle,” he said. “Spell it out.”
“Cain has failed in his chosen task to take the child,” the priest answered. “Or so it seems. He has reached a point where he can do nothing more than attempt to take the second manuscript from the museum in New York and hope to obtain Amy at a later time. So we must do something there, within the museum, that will lead him to the child.”
“Why don’t we just set up an ambush in the museum and forget about using Amy?”
“Because Cain can ultimately forsake the manuscript if the fighting becomes too fierce.” Marcelle spoke with conviction. “But he certainly will not forsake the girl if he knows he might yet take her before Samhain. If that is the
situation Cain will trust his memory to return so that he can invoke the full power of the spell. He will have no other choice.”
“Go on.”
“Cain realizes that the Church is somehow involved,” Marcelle continued. “Just as he suspects that I am pursuing him because of what he took from St. Michael’s.”
“And just what was it that he took from St. Michael’s?” Soloman asked finally. It was a question that had been troubling him since the beginning, and Marcelle hesitated for only the briefest moment.
“He took a document that was secured in the Secret Archives, Soloman. It is a library locked inside a vault hidden beneath a sub-basement. Its very existence is a papal secret.”
“I thought the Secret Archives of the Catholic Church were located in Rome.”
“A portion of the Secret Archives are indeed secured in Rome,” the priest replied, lighting another cigarette. “And, in truth, Rome controls both libraries. Father James, Librarian Superior for the Vatican, has jurisdiction over all documents. But many acts and hidden pacts made between Church and State on this continent are secured on this continent by the order of Clement IX for easier categorizing. The Archbishop, in his wisdom, wanted to keep matters relevant to America in America. It is an unspoken tradition spawned in the days when the Church so strongly settled the California coast. And they eventually selected St. Michael’s as the repository, though there are also documents deposited there involving European affairs.”
“Why?”
“Because,” Marcelle replied, “the Archives are a peculiar phenomenon, Colonel. There is no means of indexing any materials except the system invented by Innocent III. They are meant to be stored in such a way that only the Librarian Superior or the keeper at St. Michael’s could know the location of any item. And sometimes, to even further complicate matters, documents are sent across the Atlantic for purposes of further concealment. It is a diabolical manner of preservation. A man could walk through the Archives for a century and not find what he sought unless the Librarian Superior revealed it to him. Everything is hidden in plain sight with no numbering, no index – no comprehensible system at all.”
“All right,” Soloman said, catching on. “But why don’t you know what Cain took?”
“Because Father Lanester, keeper of the Archives at St. Michael’s, is dead. But Father James has arrived and the Jesuit Superior General, Anton Aveling, is personally overseeing the investigation, so I believe we shall know soon enough. And, when we do, it will give us yet another advantage over this adversary.”
They walked in silence.
“Go back to the plan,” Soloman said finally.
“Very well,” the priest said with gravity. “Cain will not be surprised if the Church were somehow working for the child. He would even anticipate it as a logical sequence of events. So, as a ruse, we can make it seem as if we are performing rituals of protection. Then inform Cain of Amy’s location.”
“So we take Amy to New York,” Soloman finished. “We somehow associate her with the location of the book and leave an open door for Cain. Then, when he comes for her, we take him down.”
“Yes. But make no mistake, Soloman: Cain is wise and fast becoming wiser by the moment. He will not launch an attack until he is certain. What I’m saying is that we cannot bluff. We must actually use the child. Without her actual presence Cain will walk away from another encounter.”
Soloman stared, measuring the scope of it. He knew that the execution would be complicated, but that wasn’t what bothered him most. Because in order to do this he would have to purposely place the life of a child in danger – a child who had no guilt and no responsibility.
Silence; a decision to make.
Finish it.
Save this kid.
His reply was slow.
“Where can we put her? If the Church is involved, then we need a place associated with the Church. But it has to be isolated because I want the freedom to use overwhelming force, Marcelle. I want the freedom to utilize fully armed gunships with a standing green light to fire on acquisition. And I don’t want the complications of any collateral damage, either. Understand me on that. I want a killing field.”
Marcelle didn’t hesitate. “There is an abandoned site, the Basilica of St. Angela located west of New York City in Warwick. It was built over one hundred years ago with three-foot thick stone walls and is more fortress than church. The walls are impregnable even to Cain. And there are only two means of egress, front and back – one of which Cain will surely be forced to use. Also, it is surrounded by a high wall that encloses an inner courtyard. With the skill of yourself and your men you can trap him there in a, uh . . . as you say – a killing field. And to your further advantage it’s surrounded by a mile of empty swamp. If Cain escapes the basilica and makes it into the field, as he escaped the museum, he will be an easy target for your gunships. They can open fire without any danger of collateral civilian damage. And not even Cain can flee quickly through the moor. No one can flee quickly when they are knee-deep in black water. If your gunships triangulate on him in the swamp, he will be torn limb from limb, finally destroyed.”
Soloman was silent.
On balance, it sounded like a good plan, just as long as they could triangulate on Cain as he approached the basilica. But the logistics and concealment and targeting procedures had to be perfect because Cain was too smart and fast for a stand-up fight. And, as Marcelle had stressed, he knew Cain would never walk into a confrontation unless he knew that his prey was obtainable, so Amy had to be there.
A multitude of factors blitzed through Soloman’s mind: concealment, surveillance, a theater of fire, ambush tactics, pursuit restrictions, communications and on and on.
Shaking his head, Soloman suppressed a grunt. This would be close, he felt; as close as anything he’d ever done. Then he remembered the most important law of combat, the one that never failed: Murphy’s.
“It’s a ballsy plan, Marcelle,” he said. “But the combat-issue version of Murphy’s Law says that no plan survives the first thirty seconds of combat. It also says that perfect plans aren’t.” He sighed. “Are you willing to take the death of this child on your conscience?”
“If we cannot kill Cain, Soloman, then Amy’s death will be on all consciences, for Cain will certainly claim her.” Marcelle’s confidence was contagious, and Soloman knew he was right. “Whether it takes Cain one year or two or three, he will ultimately kill her. You and your men cannot protect her forever, and you know as much. No one can protect her forever. Nor can she hide. One day, and soon, Cain will find her because he will become wiser than all of us together. His intellect will be unsearchable. His heart, the throne of will. And his abilities will not be limited to the flesh.”
“You’re forgetting about the virus, Marcelle.” Soloman stared at him. “It’s unlikely that any of us will be alive in a year. Or even six months. All of us, and most of the world, including Amy, will be in the graveyard. That is, if there’s enough of the living left to bury the dead.”
“Perhaps,” Marcelle responded coolly. “And if this epidemic is realized, then we will have no lives left to defend. But if this plague is not forthcoming, and there is no way to know for certain, then we will have given Cain time to locate the child. And if Cain takes her blood, he will defeat this virus to ultimately gain immortality.” He waited. “Time is not on his side, Soloman. Nor is it on ours. Cain is afraid that he will not claim the child by Samhain. And I believe he also fears that the true scope of his knowledge will never return. So he desires immortality, and whatever he gains in this ritual, to mature and execute the full scope of his plans. We must use these things against him.”
Soloman was grim as Marcelle stepped closer. “Cain can be defeated, Colonel. His strength is not without limit. I believe that one similar to Cain was defeated in the past.” He paused. “Yes, I have seen evidence of it. He was defeated b
y fire and the sword of the greatest warrior ever to walk the face of the Earth. So if you are willing to match your strength and skill against him once more, you may yet destroy him.”
Soloman paused as a moaning wind moved through the surrounding forest, and he lifted his eyes with a spectral gaze, watching it sway skeletal trees. His strength and skill and will stood balanced against death in the descending dark, and he rose against it, summoning his heart, his life, all he was for a final act. He bowed his head.
“Make arrangements for the church,” he said and turned to see Amy through a window, smiling, all fear forgotten.
Such a beautiful place to be.
He watched over her a long time, felt the smile on his face. But when he looked again at the priest his aspect altered instantly, frightening even Marcelle. His voice was deathly cold.
“You just make sure I’ve got room to kill that thing.”
***
Halcrouth Sanatorium was shrouded in a tenebrous, dreary, unnaturally still night as Dr. Felix Dubin drove through the guarded front gate, rising along wet cobblestones to approach the rear of the building. He parked and exited, absently noticing an ominous fog moving slowly, coldly across the finely manicured lawn.
Low clouds and mist made the sanatorium seem isolated and uneasy and alone in the world. And, despite being a man of science, Dr. Dubin felt an icy, disturbing sensation – a chill that closed over him with an aspect at once desolate and terrible.
Looking over his shoulder he unlocked the door and shut it fast against the night, staring with strange fear at the gathering darkness. He could not understand his racing heart, the horror that had come so quickly.
But after a moment, with the door locked, he took a deeper breath that didn’t disintegrate within him. Slowly feeling more like a scientist than a superstitious old man he calmed himself measure by measure and walked down a shadowed hallway, attempting to ignore the fact that his hands were trembling.
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